


Bedtime Stories for Little (Sea) Monsters

by QueenoftheDarned



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, Lore friendly, Other, Sea Shanties, Short Stories, Spooky Tales, Witches, not actually for children, void magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheDarned/pseuds/QueenoftheDarned
Summary: You've heard the story of the Lonely Rat Boy countless times, my darlings, but do you know the tale of How Bloodox Way Got Its Name? No? How about the Dancing Girl of Kaldwin's Bridge, or the Bride Who Ran With Rats? You don't? Well, snuggle up then, dearies, and let me tell you a bedtime story...(This is an ongoing series of short stories and cautionary tales, and perhaps a sea shanty or three, all inspired by the lore of Dishonored.)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8





	1. The Scrimshander's Folly

In the right pair of hands, bones can sing their secrets. No one knew that better than Bram “Patches” Hayhurst. Morley-born but Dunwall-raised, he had left the city four years ago, with two working legs and almost a full set of teeth, which was more than could be said for him now. The sea had taken its payment for the Whales he had helped dredge up from its hungry depths, and then some.   
No captain wanted a man with such ill luck aboard his ship, and Bram couldn’t face waving his cap on the streets of the Tower District, so he spent the last of his severance on cheap booze and dog fights, and resigned himself to his misery. That was until he saw the advertisement. 

It was a small, plain block of text on a grease-spattered sheet of newspaper the pub had used to wrap his battered hagfish. Bram might have missed it entirely, had his gaze not happened to fall on it at the right moment. 

_WANTED: a scrimshander of exceptional talent, to chronicle the history of a great noble family of Dunwall. Liberal wages and comfortable lodgings will be given. Apply to Lady Beverly Lancaster, of Lancaster Estate, Greasely Blvd._  
  
Bram knew how to coax secrets out of bones (Outsider knew he preferred dead Whales to live ones). Scrimshaw had taken on a curious popularity with the old money families of the Isles. Their histories, though often murky, set them apart from the bourgeoisie, and they leapt at any opportunity to showcase them.   
Of course, the paper was old - Bram didn’t know if the job was still open, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. No matter how humble these ‘lodgings’ were, they couldn’t be worse than the rat-infested boarding house he was staying in.

The very next morning, he polished his crutch, put on his smartest boot and least-patched coat, and hobbled over to Greasely Boulevard. He knocked on the door of the Lancaster estate.   
He didn’t know what to expect, a butler perhaps, or a maid to answer the door. He certainly hadn’t expected the old lady who opened it. She was waif-thin, dressed in dusty finery. She peered at him with rheumy eyes. Taken aback, Bram could only stare dumbly at her. 

“I’m here about the advertisement in the paper,” he explained, then repeated himself as the crone cupped a hand to her ear.

“Oh,” she said, her face creasing into a smile. “How wonderful! I was beginning to think my advertisement would never be answered!”  
Now, Bram thought this odd, for there were many scrimshanders in Dunwall, many looking for honest work since the Abbey of the Everyman had severely restricted their trade. But he didn’t want to offend the withered creature before she introduced him to Lady Lancaster, so he held his tongue.   
His confusion must have been plain on his face, for the ancient woman stared at him oddly for a moment, as if she had read his thoughts. Then she threw her head back and cackled with laughter.  
“Oh, my dear boy,” she said, seeing Bram’s bewildered expression, “I am Lady Lancaster.” She beckoned him in, and despite his burning embarrassment, Bram followed her.  
“It’s a big, empty house for an old woman to live in all alone,” she said as she led him to a cosy parlour, with a roaring fire blazing in the hearth. “With a few servants for company, of course," she added as an afterthought. "But I get by. I’m the last descendant of the Lancaster line.”

 _Ah,_ thought Bram, _she wants her family’s stories inscribed before she dies._ Lady Lancaster gave him a shrewd look, and for the second time Bram wondered if she could read his thoughts.  
“Before I agree to hire you,” she said, “I want to see what you can do. Carve one of my stories for me, and I shall see if you are worthy to be my scrimshander.”   
Bram was pleased; he had brought his scribe in the hopes that Lady Lancaster would ask him to display his talent. So he took a seat and let her place a smooth piece of Whalebone on his knee. Then, she settled in an overstuffed armchair, scratching her wrinkled cheek.   
“I have so many stories,” she said, half to herself. “Oh, how they weigh on these weary bones of mine. Which one shall I give you?”  
Now, Bram thought this was a strange way to put it, but he didn’t want to interrupt before she had even started, so again he held his tongue. Soon enough, Lady Lancaster took a deep breath, and began her tale.  
“When I was just a wee girl, I took a walk along the Wrenhaven riverside…”

Bram shut his eyes and let the old woman’s words wash over him, and as the story took shape images formed behind his eyelids. Slowly, as if in a daze, he bent his head and began to carve.  
The next thing he knew, he snapped awake, cheeks burning with shame. He had fallen asleep through Lady Lancaster’s story! Inwardly cursing himself, he looked up to find her smiling at him. Was it a trick of the light, or was she sitting up straighter, her eyes a little brighter? 

“May I see your work?” she asked, and Bram’s heart sank. She would be so disappointed. He looked down at the unfinished scrimshaw in his lap and gave a start - a fully formed picture stared up at him - a perfect likeness of the banks of the Wrenhaven, as seen from the Estate District. There was Kaldwin’s Bridge, and the distant chimneys of the Draper’s Ward. And there, in the water, was a pale face lurking just beneath the surface of the river. He looked closer - it was a woman, wearing what looked like a mourning dress, her dark hair curled around her like riverweed.  
Bram’s heart beat faster against his chest. How had he done that? He couldn’t remember a single word of the story Lady Lancaster had told him. Dumbfounded, he handed the Whalebone to the old lady, who examined it closely, her face breaking into a smile.  
“Yes, this is perfect!” she said gleefully. “Such fine work, and so quick! Already I can feel the weight of it lifted from my shoulders.”

She insisted on hiring him on the spot, pressing a heavy purse of coins into his hands for the work he’d done. Then she showed him to the room where he would be staying. Bram thought this was odd, for she had mentioned that she had servants, but his mind was still reeling from his bizarre experience, and the purse sat heavy in his pocket, so he held his tongue.   
The room was sparse, but a far cry from the damp, noisome boarding house. Bram felt strangely exhausted, as if he had spent all day hauling Whales from the ocean. He lay down in his new bed, and promptly fell asleep.

He slept through the evening and well into the next morning, and dreamt of pale girls floating just beneath the surface of the Wrenhaven’s murky waters, their soulless eyes boring into his. When he awoke, he felt a weariness that hadn’t been there before. This was odd, but he was eager to get to work again and earn another fat purse of coins, so he told himself he was imagining things, and made himself get up.

“I have another tale for you today,” Lady Lancaster told him after breakfast. She brought him into the little parlour again and presented him with another piece of Whalebone. Bram was beginning to doubt that his success the day before had been anything but a fluke, so he was determined to stay awake this time and do the job properly. He sat, ramrod-straight, with his scribe in one hand and the Whalebone in the other.  
“Once, when I was younger, and still learning the ways of the world,” Lady Lancaster began, “I found a mudlark combing the riverbank for buried treasure…” 

Bram came to with a start at the sound of his scribe dropping to the floor, and bit back a curse. He had fallen asleep _again!_ The fire had burned low in the hearth, and the sun had sunk behind the curtains, casting the room in gloomy shadows. Lady Lancaster didn’t seem to have noticed - she simply held out an expectant hand. Kicking himself, Bram could hardly bring himself to look at his work, but once again he found a finished scrimshaw sitting in his lap. This time, it showed a little boy in a flat cap and dirty overalls, clutching something protectively to his chest. When Lady Lancaster saw it, once again she broke into a wide smile.

“Yes, that’s exactly right!” she crowed. “You truly are a wonderful craftsman!” She pressed another fat purse of coins into Bram’s hand. Bram couldn’t be sure if it was the poor light, but the creases around her eyes seemed a little less severe, her skin a little less pallid.

That night, Bram dreamed of a young boy digging in the wet mud of the Wrenhaven. As he approached, the boy pulled something free of the mud and huddled over it possessively, glaring at Bram with startling ferocity. When Bram awoke, he felt the chill of the morning in his bones, and he was somehow even wearier than the day before. He knew it was odd, but he liked the way the two purses of coins jingled when he held them, and he didn’t want to go back to the boarding house, so he pushed his doubts aside.

Over the next few weeks, Bram and Lady Lancaster settled into a routine. Each day the old woman would tell him another story, and Bram would carve it, although he couldn’t remember a word of what she had said. Each night he had the strangest dreams, and woke up feeling more tired than ever, despite sleeping the whole night through. His strong hands grew wrinkled and thin, and a deep weariness settled into his bones. Grey streaks appeared in his hair and beard, and when the light faded each evening he found himself squinting in the poor light.

On the other hand, Beverly Lancaster seemed to fill with more vigour each day. Her hair darkened from silvery grey to black, and her cheeks filled out and took on a healthy shade. She no longer shuffled about the estate, but glided through its halls with unearthly grace.   
Her transformation filled Bram with unease, and his doubts began to pile up faster than he could dismiss them. Why, he wondered, did he never see the servants she had mentioned? The place was kept clean and meals were always ready on the table, but Bram had never so much as caught a glimpse of another soul beside himself and the Lady. Nor had he heard a footstep in the hall, or the creak of a door.

It also occurred to him that he had never heard the name Lancaster spoken on Dunwall’s streets, or read about them in any of the gossip pages. He reminded himself that it was a dwindling family line, that the old woman was a recluse, but the more he tried to push these questions aside, the worse they plagued him.   
One night he could stand it no more. He snuck into Lady Lancaster’s library and pulled down her copy of the _Nobilis Libris,_ the book of aristocratic houses of Dunwall. It made no mention of the Lancasters. Clearly they were not the ‘great, noble family’ the advertisement had claimed.

He would confront her, he decided, and get some answers. But when the so-called Lady summoned Bram to the parlour the next morning, she greeted him not with a smile and a new piece of Whalebone, but the _Nobilis Libris,_ which she held in a white-knuckled grasp. She fixed him a glare so stony his questions tangled and dried up in his throat.

“You make too free with my hospitality, scrimshander,” she said, her voice like ice. “From now on, my library is off-limits, and you may not wander about after dark. Instead, you will retire directly to your room, and not emerge again until sunrise.” She had never expressly forbidden Bram to visit her library, and he felt she was being bitterly unfair, but a deep fear had crept into his heart, and his tongue felt like a slab of raw meat in his mouth.

Lady Lancaster dismissed him with no story, and Bram returned to his room. He knew that he could not stay another moment in this mansion, with its unsettling stories, and the servants he had never seen. He packed his scant belongings and the hefty sack of coins he had earned, and waited until dark. Then, when the last of the lamplight faded from the crack under his door, he stole from his room and hobbled as quietly as he could out into the hall.

Bram thought he knew the manor well, but it seemed to take on a different shape in the dark. He took one wrong turn, then another, until he was all turned around. His bearings lost, he found himself in an entirely different wing of the old house. These halls didn’t seem to have been lived in for years; the furniture was covered in sheets like funeral shrouds, and the air was thick with dust and mildew. Nevertheless he pressed on, hoping to find a hallway that would lead him back to familiar ground.

At last he came to a dead end, with a vault-like door he had not seen before. Cast from iron, it stood a few inches ajar. A strange sound emanated from beyond it, a crooning song that urged him to come closer. Bram had the prickling feeling that the house had wanted him to come this way, that it had shepherded him here. Not seeing any other option but to go back the way he came, he curled his fingers around the edge of the door and slipped inside.

Bone charms. 

There were mountains of them; they lined shelves, spilled from cupboards, and lay in gleaming piles across the floor. Their song filled Bram’s head and rattled his teeth. They were carved with scrimshaw, not only by his hand but countless others. Bram knew with a creeping certainty that they were not only carved from the bones of Whales.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” said Lady Lancaster. Bram fair leapt out of his skin, for she had stolen up behind him as silently as a shadow. 

“What are you?” he forced out through chattering teeth. Beverly Lancaster sighed and gave him a mournful, sharp-toothed smile.

“I have lived for so long, and the weight of all my stories settles into my bones. When they become too much to bear, I find a scrimshander to take some of that burden from me. Then, they too become part of my history.” She made an elegant gesture, indicating the vast collection of bone charms. “All of this bolsters the magic The Outsider has granted me.”

Bram had heard enough. Giving the witch a mighty shove, he dove past her in a frantic attempt to escape. But Beverly Lancaster was no longer old or frail - she moved like a Pandyssian cat stalking its prey. With his missing leg and weary bones, and the weight of all of her stories, all Bram could manage was a desperate, painful hobble. He watched with horror as the vault door swung slowly, inexorably shut.

When Bram’s hoarse screams finally died away, the only sound remaining was the bone charms, ceaselessly singing their stories into the dark.


	2. The Whaler's Mourn (Sea shanty)

**The Whaler’s Mourn  
** (To be sung to the tune of _Barrett’s Privateers)_

Oh t’was last year in the Month of Rains, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ I stepped aboard Captain Taylor’s ship, my father’s gun slung on my hip,  
 _(Damn their eyes! Wicked lies! A Whaler’s life is full of strife,  
_ _Mind your tongue, keep your gun aimed low, or you’ll wind up on Slaughterhouse Row,  
_ _Drag me down to the undertow)_

I scratched me mark in Taylor’s book, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ He promised me if I’d join his scheme, I’d make more coin than I’d ever seen,  
 _(Damn their eyes! Wicked lies! A Whaler’s life is full of strife,  
_ _Mind your tongue, keep your gun aimed low, or you’ll wind up on Slaughterhouse Row,  
_ _Drag me down to the undertow)_

Three days after we put to sea, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ A glint appeared in the Captain’s eye, as he plied me well with Tyvian wine,  
 _(Damn their eyes…)_

I woke in the brig with my hands in chains, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ I’d signed myself as a volunteer, indentured for ten dreadful years,  
 _(Damn their eyes…)_

They worked my fingers to the bone, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ Taylor was cruel with the nine-tailed whip, my father’s gun slung on his hip,  
 _(Damn their eyes…)_

One night he drank more than his fill, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ The ship caught a wave and he went down, cracked his skull on the old capstan,  
 _(Damn their eyes...)_

I took my gun and aimed it true, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ I shot him ten times in the back, and left his body for the rats,  
 _(Damn their eyes…)_

Now here I slave in the silver mines, _(How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
_ How I long for the sun and the rolling waves, I’ll be here the rest of my days,  
 _(Damn their eyes…)_

So gather round and listen well, (How I wish I was in Dunwall town!)  
Before you sign a captain’s book, beware he’s not a blasted crook!  
(Damn their eyes…)

_Note: While indentured labour was eventually outlawed in the Isles in 1778, the working conditions of whalers and slaughterhouse workers are hotly contested to this day. The song remains popular in rowdy taverns across the Isles as a cautionary tale for poorly educated sailors and dock workers, particularly those who cannot read._


	3. The Weeper and the Widow

_ The mudlarks who make their homes in the crumbling warehouses of Dunwall’s harbours tell many frightening tales from the time of the Rat Plague. Of course, skittish and half-feral as they are, it is nigh impossible to tell if these stories are rooted in truth, or merely the ramblings of children gone half-mad with hunger. But if one is brave enough to venture into their territory, bringing with them an appropriate offering, perhaps they might recount the frightening (if unlikely) tale of the Weeper and the Widow... _

***

In a damp little flat alongside the Millenary Canal lived an old woman. The plague had taken her husband and all of her family but, by some miracle or curse, spared her. The City Watch took the bodies of her loved ones away, and now her existence was a lonely one, as her former friends and neighbours would no longer go near her, for fear of catching the plague themselves.

One evening, the Old Widow was dusting the front stoop when she heard a strange, frightening sound. She stopped sweeping and, straining her ears, followed the sound to a nearby drain. She peered into the gloom, but the sun had already dipped below the roofline, and shadows gathered in the lonely corners of the streets. She could see nothing, but coming from the dark recesses of the drain was a moaning and gnashing of teeth, and a low, guttural voice;

_ “Oh, my love, my love, why did you let them take me?” _

Beside herself with terror, the Old Widow banged on her neighbour’s door and pleaded with him to help her investigate the noise in the drain. 

“Go away, you old crone!” her neighbour rebuked her, “I’ll not risk catching the plague from you!”

“Then will you at least lend me a lantern?” the Widow begged, but her neighbour had already slammed the door in her face.

She hailed a passing watchman, and again pleaded with him to help her, but he had heard about the old woman whose husband and family had been struck down with the plague, and drew away sharply.

“Get lost, lady,” he snapped. Tapping the side of his head, he went on; “You’re probably just hearing things. That’s the first sign of the plague, you know.” The watchman stomped off down the street before the old woman could even ask to borrow his lantern.

In desperation, The Widow turned to a gaggle of dirty children playing in the gutter, but they had been warned to stay away from the old crone who had survived the plague when no-one else in her family had, and so they ran away, shrieking and throwing stones. 

Hopelessly, The Widow returned to her home and tried not to think about the terrifying noise in the drain, but that night, as she closed her eyes to sleep, she heard that low, guttural voice again;

_ “Oh, my love, my love, why did you let them take me?”  _

The Widow’s heart felt as if it would burst out of her chest, but she knew that she would get no sleep unless she found out once and for all what lurked in the drain. Lighting a candle, she made her way out into the darkened streets. She wandered along the canal, until she came to a loose drain cover that opened into the sewer tunnels. Through the grate, she heard the sound of splashing footsteps.

Gathering up every scrap of courage she could muster, the Old Widow prised open the loose grate and ventured into the sewer tunnel. Just up ahead, she could make out the faint shape of a person moving back and forth, clutching its belly and moaning softly. As the Widow drew closer, it looked up and stepped into the pale light of her candle.

“No,” she whispered, her trembling hand making the candlelight move, casting twisted shadows over the sewer walls. “It can’t be… you’re dead!”

_ “No,”  _ croaked the thing that was once her husband. _ “Not dead, merely dying. But my time grows short, and I have missed you so.”  _ The Weeper ambled forward and reached out a rotting hand, bloated and wriggling with maggots.  _ “Take my hand, and we can be together…” _

With a scream fit to wake the dead, the Widow dropped her candle, which guttered and died, and ran out of the tunnel into the street like The Outsider himself was after her. When she risked a glance over her shoulder, to her horror she saw the Weeper chasing her. 

She ran out into Alder Street, and narrowly avoided being bowled over by one of those new-fangled Whale-oil powered carriages. There was a screech and a deafening crash, and when the old woman turned, she saw the carriage on its side, the Weeper lying a few feet away with its belly slit open like a hagfish. Its innards had spilled out onto the road. Even though it was her husband, the Widow couldn’t help but sigh with relief. He had been put out of his misery, and now his spirit could finally rest.

Imagine her horror when he sat up, clutching his spilled guts, and lurched to his feet.

The Widow took off running again, her slippers smacking against the cobblestones of Alder street. She ducked through alleys strung with washing, hoping to throw it off her trail, but it always seemed to stay just a few paces behind her. In her panic, she ran all the way to the textile mill, where exhausted weavers worked through the night, producing fine fabrics for the swells to wear at their fancy parties.

Before anyone could stop her, the Old Widow burst through the doors and ran right onto the work floor, where machines rumbled and clanked endlessly. The Weeper followed close at her heels, but when she ducked beneath the moving arm of a loom, the Weeper lunged for her and caught its fingers in the warp. It let out an ear-splitting screech, and the Old Widow watched, horrified, as its arm was dragged into the machine.

But the Weeper was not to be so easily dissuaded. With the crunching of bone and tearing of flesh, it strained against the machine’s grip until its arm ripped clean off at the shoulder. Still clutching its insides to its belly with its remaining hand, it sprang forward and gave chase once again.

The old woman had run such a long way, and her lungs and feet screamed for mercy, but the Weeper showed no signs of slowing. It dogged her steps all the way to the banks of the Wrenhaven River. Hysterical with fear, The Widow screamed for someone - anyone - to help her. Finally she came to a group of silt-diggers hunting for river krusts. In her desperation the old woman leapt straight into the mud, wading toward the diggers even as it clung to her ankles, her legs, her middle, threatening to drag her down.

One of the diggers spied the Weeper lumbering towards them by the light of his lamp. With a mighty swing of his shovel, he took off the Weeper’s head, sending it rolling into the Wrenhaven, where it was swept out to sea.

Some folks say that the Weeper’s body was carted off by the City Watch and burned, but others swear that on dark, moonless nights, they have seen a strange, headless figure lurking in shadowed places, stinking of rot and moaning in a low, hoarse voice…

_ “Oh, my love, my love, why did you let them take me?”  _


	4. Haul 'er Up (Sea Shanty)

**Haul ‘er Up**

Oh, from old Whitecliff to Redmoor we toil  
We make our living in precious Whale oil  
Can’t remember the last time my feet touched the soil  
Haul ‘er up, boys, hold ‘er steady  
Haul ‘er up to the sun

It’s back-breaking work but we don’t complain  
The bosses don’t care ‘bout the wind or the rain  
If you know the words you can join the refrain;  
Haul ‘er up, boys, hold ‘er steady  
Haul ‘er up to the sun

All of the rich folk up in Dunwall town  
Drinking their wine in their fancy ball gowns  
Don’t give a damn if our good ship goes down  
Haul ‘er up, boys, hold ‘er steady  
Haul ‘er up to the sun

The plague took my brother in the prime of his life  
And I lost me poor dad to a Bottle Street knife  
Now all I got left is me poor weary wife  
Haul ‘er up, boys, hold ‘er steady  
Haul ‘er up to the sun

That me mam was a witch, she never denied  
Said she had seen things she couldn’t describe  
The Overseers took her and burned her alive  
Haul ‘er up, boys, hold ‘er steady  
Haul ‘er up to the sun

A Whaler’s got no time to worry or pray  
When we’re chasing our quarry through crimson-flecked spray  
We’ll end up in the Void or a watery grave  
Haul ‘er up, boys, hold ‘er steady  
Haul ‘er up to the sun


	5. An Incident at the Whale's Tale

**18th in the Month of Wind, 1837**

**Officer Maltby’s Report: A Transcript**

  
_[Recording begins. Unintelligible noises indicate someone is adjusting the recording device.]_

Captain Wareham: Is this blasted thing on? The card is moving. Is it meant to move like that? I hate these things.

Watch Guard Maltby: It’s recording, sir.

Captain Wareham: Good. Let’s get this over with. _[A sigh.]_ It is the 18th in the Month of Wind, 1837, at… ten past eight bells in the morning. I am Captain Nolan Wareham. With me is Watch Guard Warren Maltby.

_[A short pause, then the scrape of a chair.]_

Captain Wareham: Very well. Tell me what happened last night.

Watch Guard Maltby: Right, well. When our shift ended at seven bells, meself and the boys - er, that is, all of us in Officer Jemmy’s crew - we went down to The Blowhole-

Captain Wareham: Excuse me?

Watch Guard Maltby: Oh, that’s what we call The Whale’s Tale, Captain, sorry. What you might call a… an affectionate nickname, like.

_[A pause]_

Watch Guard Maltby: Er, well, it’s just ‘round the corner from the Draper’s Ward. A bit shabby, you know - faded gilt paint, patched brickwork. Stinks of brine and runoff from the mills, but it’s a good place. Homey.

Captain Wareham: By the void, Maltby, I didn’t drag you into my office for a recommendation!

Watch Guard Maltby: Sorry, sir. Just trying to build a vivid picture for you.

Captain Wareham: Fine, fine. _[Sighs]_ Just try to stick to the point. 

Watch Guard Maltby: So me and the boys sat down, sir, with our drinks, and we watched the entertainment. 

_[A pause]_

Captain Wareham: What now?

Watch Guard Maltby: It’s just that… for the rest of what happened to make sense, I have to tell you about the show.

Captain Wareham: Is this really necessary?

Watch Guard Maltby: I - I think so, sir. I’ll try to leave out the more off-colour details.

Captain Wareham: Fine. Get on with it.

Watch Guard Maltby: So, the show started with Nancy - poor girl. Terrible shame, what happened to her. She was well known ‘round the Draper’s Ward, if you catch my meaning, sir. Terrible waste. Anyway, all the punters were ecstatic to see her, as usual, stamping their feet an’ all. After she sang her opening number, she started to flirt with the crowd a bit, weaving her way through the tables. An’ while she was doing all this, a masked figure appeared on the stage, sneaking around like a pantomime villain.

Captain Wareham: What did this masked figure look like?

Watch Guard Maltby: It looked like a man. Tall, dressed in a scarlet coat and a whaler mask, just like the wanted posters. We all knew who it was supposed to be, so we all started to boo and hiss, but Nancy just kept walking ‘round the room, pretending she couldn’t see him. Then he held up a finger to his mask, like this-

Captain Wareham: Describe what he did for the recording, Maltby.

Watch Guard Maltby: Oh, right. He put one finger up to his mask, like a “shh”ing motion. Anyway, of course Bagsley couldn’t help himself - he was practically falling out of his seat yelling “Behind you!” at poor ol’ Nancy. Had to pull him back into his seat. Once the crowd was good and riled up, Nancy turned ‘round and let out a shriek, clutching at herself, all dramatic like. And she went, “Aiee! 'Tis the fearsome assassin, Daud, come to _penetrate_ me with his knife!”

_[A long pause]_

Watch Guard Maltby: I’m just tellin’ you everything, sir, so you understand what happened next.

Captain Wareham: _[Through gritted teeth]_ Continue.

Watch Guard Maltby: Well, on it went. The guy in the mask never talked at all, just waved his arms around while another guy backstage played the trombone. _[Chuckling]_ I thought that was pretty clever, mysel- ahem. Anyway, the pianist started up a rag and they chased each other ‘round the hall a bit, while the rest of us cheered our Nancy on. Then right at the end, when they got back to the stage, Daud - I mean, the actor playing Daud - whipped out a knife and chased her offstage. 

Captain Wareham: Hysterical.

Watch Guard Maltby: Maybe you had to be there, sir. Though in hindsight, maybe-

Captain Wareham: -So what happened next?

Watch Guard Maltby: Well, the other acts came on. Kitty Hemlock with her trapeze, and the Herring brothers, all dressed up like the Pendletons. It was about half an hour into the show when the lights in the place went out. All at once, too. Place was darker than the inside of a Whale. Then the screaming started.

Captain Wareham: Go on.

Watch Guard Maltby: It was horrible, sir. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, at first, because I was all turned ‘round. I jumped out of my seat, and I heard the others do the same. Then the lights came back on, and, well. You saw the crime scene.

Captain Wareham: Describe what you saw for the recording.

_[Watch Guard Maltby takes a deep breath]_

Watch Guard Maltby: Yes, sir. The stage, it was… well, it was all covered in blood. And there was Nancy and the man who’d played Daud, or rather, their bodies, stuck all over with knives. Plus the pianist and the trombone player, although I didn’t know that at the time. And standing around them were these figures-

Captain Wareham: How many figures?

Watch Guard Maltby: Five. No, six. Six figures, all dressed in black, wearing whaler masks. They had blades, still dripping with blood.

Captain Wareham: How long were the lights out for?

Watch Guard Maltby: I - I don’t rightly know, Captain. It’s all a bit of a blur, that part.

Captain Wareham: If you had to guess. Think, man! 

Watch Guard Maltby: If… if I had to guess, I’d say forty seconds. A minute, at the most. 

Captain Wareham: So it’s possible there were more of these masked assailants, then?

Watch Guard Maltby: I suppose there must have been, to co-ordinate the attack so smoothly.

Captain Wareham: And what did you do next?

Watch Guard Maltby: Well, I froze up, just trying to take it all in. Just like everyone else in the room, sir. I swear I heard the blood dripping off the edge of the stage, it was so quiet. Then one of the assassins held up their knife, and shouted “For Daud’s Honour!” 

Captain Wareham: Those were their exact words?

Watch Guard Maltby: Yes. Clear as day - _‘Daud’s honour’._ Then everything erupted into chaos - the punters were all tripping over themselves and each other to get out, knocking over chairs and tables, and I shouted something - can’t remember what it was, but I knew me and the boys had to take the assassins out. 

Captain Wareham: I assume in the ensuing fracas that Bagsley sustained his injury.

Watch Guard Maltby: Yes, sir. He wasn’t at his sharpest, on account of him having had three pints. But he was brave, and I won’t fault him for his loyalty.

Captain Wareham: Noted. So you fought the assassins?

Watch Guard Maltby: ‘Fought’ might not be the right word. After Bagsley went down, they took advantage of the distraction and disappeared. I mean that literally, Captain. They disappeared into thin air. There’s no way they could have run off that quickly on foot. It’s like they melted into the shadows.

Captain Wareham: And you’re one hundred percent sure of this?

Watch Guard Maltby: I’d swear it on the strictures.

Captain Wareham: I see. Is that when you called for backup from the Watch?

Watch Guard Maltby: Not quite, sir. I still wanted to see if I could catch the bastards, so I ran out through the stage door into Magpie Alley. They were nowhere to be seen, but as I turned to go back inside…

Captain Wareham: What is it?

_[A long pause]_

Watch Guard Maltby: It’s just, I don’t know if you’re going to believe me, Captain. I can hardly believe it myself.

Captain Wareham: Try me.

Watch Guard Maltby: Alright, well, this figure came right out of nowhere. Like a shadow had detached itself from the wall of the alley. I had no time to react or even call out before it grabbed me and slammed me against the wall, a hand over my mouth. I thought I was done for, that one of the assassins had doubled back to slip a knife between my ribs, but this one was… it was different.

Captain Wareham: Different how?

Watch Guard Maltby: Well, he was wearing a mask, but it weren’t no Whaler’s mask, that’s for damn sure. It was a grinning, black skull, like a vision straight out of the void. It was _him,_ sir. I’m sure of it.

Captain Wareham: _[Scoffing]_ Maltby, if it were _him,_ you wouldn’t be here in this room telling me about it, I can assure you. 

Watch Guard Maltby: I’ve heard the stories, and maybe they’re true, but I know what I saw. I won’t forget that mask as long as I live. And that’s not all. He leaned in close, close enough that I could hear him breathing. And he said, so quiet I could barely hear him - “You didn’t see me”. And then he let me go, and disappeared back into the shadows. Fair thought my knees would give out on me right there, I can tell you.

_[A long pause]_

Captain Wareham: Watch Guard Maltby, exactly how much did you have to drink last night?

Watch Guard Maltby: What? No, I - you don’t understand, Captain! I might have had a whiskey or two, but when I saw that mask I went stone cold sober. I swear it on me mammy’s grave! 

Captain Wareham: Hmph. 

_[Another pause]_

Captain Wareham: Watch Guard Maltby, you will tell no one - and I mean _no-one,_ about what you saw in Magpie Alley. 

Watch Guard Maltby: Sir?

Captain Wareham: No one, Maltby. If the Lord Regent hears Corvo Attano slipped through our fingers _again_ it will be Coldridge Prison for the both of us. Am I understood?

Watch Guard Maltby: Yes, sir.

Captain Wareham: Fine. You may return to your duties.

_[Another long pause, filled with the shuffling of papers and the scratching of a pen]_

Watch Guard Maltby: Actually, sir, I was-

Captain Wareham: By the Void, are you still here?

Watch Guard Maltby: Well, I was thinking, sir, that given what happened - and me runnin’ right into danger and all - that maybe I’m due for a promotion. 

_[A pause]_

Captain Wareham: Were you, now? And I suppose you’ll be wanting your own squad, too?

Watch Guard Maltby: Well, after what happened last night…

Captain Wareham: Get out of my office, Maltby.

Watch Guard Maltby: ...Yes, sir.

_[The scrape of a chair, footsteps, then the creak of a door opening and closing.]_

Captain Wareham: _[Sighs heavily]._ The time is twenty-three past eight bells in the morning. Thus concludes Watch Guard Warren Maltby’s report.

_[Recording Ends]_


End file.
